


This Will Be the Last

by placentalmammal



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Dark, Dom/sub, F/F, Femdom, Femslash February, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Improvised Sex Toys, Masturbation, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the NCR’s victory at Hoover Dam and after the destruction of the bunker at Hidden Valley, Courier Six and Colonel Moore come to an understanding. Originally posted on the <a href="http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/588.html?thread=18210380#t18210380">Fallout Kink Meme</a>. See end note for detailed content warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Will Be the Last

For the first time in more than two centuries, the Lucky 38 opened its doors to the public. Former courier María Sixto “Six” Ortega hosted a lavish gala for the NCR’s social and military elite in celebration of their victory at Hoover Dam. Caesar was dead and his empire was a fading memory: cut the cake and pour the champagne.

The party had been Crocker’s idea. Six had never much cared for crowds, but the ambassador wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He engineered the whole affair: brass band, four-course dinner, and enough liquor to pickle a deathclaw. He outlined his vision in low tones, speaking quickly, his eyes alight, face flush with triumph. It was to be a reception for the figurative marriage between the Republic and the Mojave; the realization that she was the _bride_ left Six near-hysterical with laughter.

She dressed the part in a tea-length dress. Full, swingy tulle skirt and a stiff taffeta bodice with a spray of shimmering crystals across the bust. The gold-colored gown offset her dark skin nicely and leant her a radiance she didn’t deserve. She stood among the NCR officials and Strip big-wigs, accepting their congratulations and feeling like an imposter. The dress pulled tight across her rib cage, too small for her broad frame, her bust spilling out over the top. It was like wearing another woman’s skin. She posed for the cameras and smiled bright, shaking hands with an endless succession of senators and businessmen while flashbulbs burst and popped like supernovas.

After dinner, Six posed with the president, her smile stiff as plaster. She didn’t crack until Kimball hung a medal around her neck, his clammy hands lingering on her chest. She jerked away from him, her face burning, while the onlookers stifled laughter. _Classic Kimball,_ they said, shaking their heads and smiling. _He’s a hound dog; he’s got roving hands and the wandering eye. Good thing_ Mrs. _Kimball isn’t here!_

She stormed from the room, humiliated. The medal was cold and dead against her skin, heavy around her throat like a pair of strangling hands. Six cut through the crowd like a knife, elbowing her way towards the elevator. She fled to the cocktail lounge, eyes pricking with furious tears. She burst from the elevator doors and tore the medallion from her neck. She threw it to the ground with shaking hands, savoring the _clang_ of bronze against the hard floor.

Trembling, Six crossed to the windows. She leaned heavily on the safety rail, forehead pressed against the cool glass, and counted her breaths until her heart stopped racing. Outside, the strip was lit up by neon signs, bright as day and hundreds of feet below, the streets teemed with activity. Gamblers and NCR troopers swarmed across the illuminated Strip, cheering and laughing and leaning on one another for support while street vendors competed for their attention. Securitrons and MP’s broke up fights and chased drunks out of fountains and hedgerows, towards the lock-up in the NCR embassy. Six watched, the casinos’ neon lights reflected in her dark eyes.

Behind her, the elevator door chimed. Colonel Moore emerged, leaning on a cane, the her brass on her dress uniform winking in the light pouring in from outside. “Thought you’d be up here,” she said. “Crocker’s looking for you.” The Colonel had a bad leg; an old injury aggravated by an errant grenade during the battle at Hoover Dam. The cane was old-world, walnut, finished with a dark stain, brass handle worn to a smooth patina by countless hands.

“Crocker can go to hell,” Six said. Her voice shook like her hands, tremulous in the dim room.

Moore joined her at the railing, staring out over the Mojave. “Someone should apologize for Kimball’s behavior.” Her tone was steady and neutral, almost indifferent.

“Not you, though,” she said bitterly. Six glanced at the other woman; Moore’s expression was unreadable. She sighed and returned her attention to the chaos on the streets below. “I should have let the Legion blow his brains out.”

“I hope you’re joking.”

Six said nothing. She’d taken a bullet for the president during his visit to Hoover Dam. There’d been a bomb on the vertibird and an assassin disguised as an engineer; he’d fired at her, point-blank and she’d caught the bullet in the chest. It splintered her collarbone and lodged itself in her chest, somewhere underneath her sternum, too deep for the medics to dig out. They’d sewn up her wound around it, injecting Stims directly into the injured muscle, the needle flush against shattered bone.

She thought she could feel the bullet inside her, sometimes. It ached.

“Ortega.” Moore’s hand landed on Six’s wrist; she turned to look at the Colonel. Her face, half-illuminated by the neons, was grave. “Answer me.”

“I was kidding,” Six said. Moore’s grip was leaden, and she did not pull away.

“You did a good thing for the NCR,” said the colonel. “It would be a mistake to jeopardize your standing with the Republic with those kinds of comments.” She leaned close, her face scant inches from Six’s own. “Do you understand?”

Six stared at her, dizzy and suddenly breathless. “Yes.”

Moore released her wrist, Six tamped down a sudden wave of bitter disappointment. “I’m glad we understand each other, Ortega.”

“Six,” she said. “It’s what my friends call me.”

The Colonel looked at her steadily, her eyes searching and unreadable. “I am not your friend.”

“You could be,” Six said. She moved her hand closer to Moore’s on the safety rail, pinkie fingers brushing. “I want you to be.”

“What else do you want?” Moore said, her voice low, her eyes locked on Six’s throat.

“I want--” Heat rose in her cheeks and Six wet her lips with her tongue. “I want you to touch me.”

“How?”

“However you wanted,” Six said. She was breathing hard, winded, like she’d just run a dozen miles. “I would do--I would do whatever you wanted me to.” She swallowed. “Whatever you told me to.”

“You mean that?”

Six hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes.”

Moore lifted a hand to Six’s cheek, traced the outline of her lips with one calloused finger. “Are you on anything?”

“No,” she breathed. “I’m sober. I been--I been clean for a week. NCR docs won’t give me Med-X.”

“Good,” said Moore. “I don’t waste my time with junkies and drunks.”

Six’s eyes burned with tears again, shame wriggling in her gut like a fish on a line. “Yes ma’am,” she said, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

“Oh, I like that,” said Moore, lips quirking in a small smile. “Say it again, louder.”

“Yes ma’am,” Six said, her voice echoing in the vast, empty cocktail lounge.

“Tell me again, what do you want?”

“I want you to touch me, Ma’am. Any way you want.” Six swallowed, her throat dry. “I want you to hurt me, Ma’am.”

“Good,” said Moore, practically purring. “Good. On your knees, Ortega.”

Six dropped to her knees immediately and stared up at the other woman. Moore regarded her coolly, resumed stroking her face. Six shuddered, her eyes fluttering shut, her mouth falling open as Moore caressed her lips. She slipped a finger into Six’s mouth, and she sucked eagerly, twin fired burning in her cheeks.

“Good,” said Moore, pushing her fingers deeper into Six’s mouth. Her fingertip brushed the back of Six’s throat and she gagged. Moore withdrew her hand and wiped her fingers on Six’s cheek, still smiling faintly. “Very good,” she said. “Hands and knees.”

Six leaned forward and put her weight on her elbows, ass in the air, her face level with Moore’s polished shoes. Her reflection stared back at her, eyes wide, cheeks burning, hair mussed. She closed her eyes and counted her breaths, willing herself to remain still as the Colonel walked in a circle around her, inspecting her like a piece of Pre-War machinery.

Moore used her cane to tease Six’s skirt up her thighs, baring several inches of brown flesh to the crisp, conditioned air. Six shivered, gooseflesh pricking along her thighs, and Moore pulled the cane away, letting Six’s skirt fall back down again. “I hated this thing at first,” she said, she used the cane to part Six’s legs, widening her base. “But it has its uses.”

“Yes ma’am,” Six said, face pressed into the carpet.

“I didn’t say you could speak,” Moore hissed. She brought the cane down on Six’s ass, knocking her forward. Pain radiated out from her core, a sharp counterpoint to the dull discomfort of the rough carpet against her knees and forearms. Moore lifted her skirt again, exposing her ass, and Six’s cheeks burned in arousal and humiliation.

She’d worn black panties that day. They were pre-war, salvaged from a Vault, plain and unadorned. No ribbons, no lace, nothing feminine or soft, just practical black cotton and thin strips of worn elastic around the waist and legs. They were already soaked through, clinging obscenely to her wet sex.

Moore laughed, her amusement low and heady like a roll of distant thunder. “You weren’t expecting to get laid tonight, were you, Ortega?” She slid the cane over the curve of Six’s buttocks, between her legs. “You may speak.”

“No ma’am,” she said, face screwed shut with the effort of remaining still as Moore pressed the cane against Six’s labia.

“Of course not,” said the colonel. “You haven’t been fucked at all, not since _she_ left you.” She pressed the cane against Six’s pussy, grinding up into her. Six squirmed, flushing, hands clenching into fists. “The Brotherhood scribe. What was her name? Virginia? Victoria?”

“Veronica,” Six murmured, deeply miserable, her thighs slick with her juices.

“Of course,” said Moore. “Veronica.”

The cane twitched against Six’s pussy, sliding between her lips and brushing her clit. She jumped and moaned, unable to stop herself from grinding back against the cane, aching and needful.

“And here you are,” Moore drawled. “Two weeks later, on your hands and knees like a dog in heat.” She pulled the cane away and Six nearly cried in frustration. “Do you miss her?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Colonel Moore began circling Six again, coming to stop in front of her. “Have you touched herself since she left you?”

Six hesitated. “Yes,” she breathed.

“Show me,” Moore commanded. “Take off that dress and show me.”

Trembling, Six rose into a kneeling position. Eyes locked on Moore’s cold, disapproving face, she reached behind her back with numb, shaking hands and fumbled with the zipper. Two tugs, and it began to move, sliding down the curve of her spine to bare more of her back to the cold air. She wriggled out of the dress, relieved to be rid of it. Six looked up at Moore through her lashes, lips parted, naked except for her panties, strapless bra, and heeled shoes.

“Your bra,” Moore said, leaning on the cane, her voice imperious and impatient.

Six groped at the clasp with clumsy hands. It came loose in her grasp, and she pulled it away, baring her heavy breasts to the Colonel’s cold scrutiny. She wanted to cover herself, to shrink away from Moore’s gaze, but she hadn’t been given permission to do so. Instead, she moved from a kneeling to a sitting position, and slid her panties down her thighs, exposing her wet, shivering cunt.

“Good,” said Moore. “Now touch yourself.”

Six spread her knees wider, opening her legs to allow Moore an unobstructed view of her pussy as she slipped two inside herself. Six bit her lip and ran her fingers along her slit, teasing and spreading her moisture around, then came up to draw rough little circles around her clitoris. Moore’s eyes crawled over her body, lingering on her tits and cunt, drinking in Six’s debasement like fine wine. A moan escaped Six’s lips, and her hips twitched, rolling forward against her hand while she applied firm, steady pressure to her clit.

With Moore’s eyes on her, it didn’t take long for Six to come against her hand. She twitched and shuddered, mouth noiselessly, chest rising and falling rapidly as her orgasm took her. She moaned, low and sweet, her juices running down her fingers and dripping onto the carpeted floor. Six looked up at Moore, lips parted, burning to ask if she’d done well, if Moore was pleased with her efforts.

The colonel said nothing. She watched a moment longer, until Six’s orgasm had cooled, leaving her shivering once again, currents of cold air raising goosepimples on her flushed skin. Six’s nipples were stiff peaks and her thighs prickled. Moore studied her, expression unreadable, and Six watched the movement of her hands as she fiddled with the cane, wondered how those fingers would feel inside her, up against her clit. She _wanted_ Moore so badly, but the woman was untouchable, distant as the moon.

“Come here,” she said, leaning the cane against the safety railing. Her hands went to her belt, and Six moved forward eagerly, crawling on her hands and knees until she knelt at Moore’s feet, staring up at her and shivering in anticipation. “Do you like eating pussy?”

Six nodded, her face growing hot once again.

“Do it,” Moore ordered. “You can touch me.”

Six reached up like a beggar reaching for a god’s hem. She undid Moore’s belt with trembling hands, eased her stiff trousers down far enough to expose her groin. Moore’s white panties were soaked through with her slick, dark curls plainly visible through the damp fabric. Six kissed her, lips soft and reverent against her hot, clothed sex, and the colonel groaned, hands tangling in Six’s dark, coarse hair.

Six pushed Moore’s underwear aside, baring her pussy, and buried her nose in the colonel’s cunt. She tasted acidic and sweet, like a heady, floral wine, and Six lapped at her juices eagerly. She licked along Moore’s seam, and she groaned again, tightening her hold. The pinpricks of pain on Six’s scalp served as encouragement, and she began to suck on Moore’s clit, hands sliding up her legs to clutch at her buckling thighs as the other woman’s juices ran down her lips and chin.

“Right there,” Moore said. “Fuck!”

She came with a rush of heat and moisture against Six’s lips, drenching her face. Six persisted through Moore’s orgasm, licking up into the colonel’s cunt as the colonel shuddered and moaned, yanking painfully on Six’s hair.

Moore held her there for a moment, face buried in her pussy, then pushed her away and pulled her trousers back up with shaking hands, tucking her shirt in and doing up her belt buckle like nothing had happened. “Good work, Ortega,” she said, staggering weak-kneed to the bar.

Six slipped her dress back on, not bothering with the zipper, and retrieved Moore’s cane. She crossed to the bar and sat beside her, extending the cane like a peace offering.

The colonel accepted it with a muttered word of thanks, then reached for a couple of glasses and an untouched bottle of scotch. She opened the bottle with her teeth (Six _swooned_ ) and slopped some of the amber liquor into each glass. “You alright, Ortega?” she said quietly, one towards Six.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. Six fiddled with the glass without drinking.

“Shouldn’t have brought up your ex,” Moore said. No apology, but an acknowledgment of error. Almost as good.

Six shrugged. “It was my own damn fault,” she said bitterly. “There was another way, I didn’t have to--” She stopped, took a deep breath, and drank.

“You were just following orders,” Moore said, draining her glass and avoiding Six’s eye. “It’s war. People get hurt.”

Six glared at her, scrubbed at her face with the back of her hand. “That’s a fucking cheap excuse.”

Moore sighed, refilled her glass. “It is.”

Lips pressed together, Six stared out the window. “Does it ever get any easier? Living with this shit?” Unthinking, Six’s hands went to the scar on her collarbone, grasping for the bullet buried in her myocardium.

“No.”

Six drank; didn’t bother responding. Moore sighed. “For what it’s worth,” she said. “I _am_ sorry. About the Brotherhood.” She swallowed. “About Veronica.”

“It ain’t worth much,” Six said, without heat. Her anger had burnt out; she’d wasted it on fucking Kimball and his goddamn worthless medal. There was none left over for the Colonel.

“I know,” said Moore. A moment’s hesitation, then she reached out, pulled Six’s face towards her own, and kissed her laconically. It left Six breathless, on the verge of tears. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

Six said nothing; there was nothing _to_ say.

Sighing, Moore got to her feet, leaning on the cane once again. “I should go back,” she said, without enthusiasm. “If you want, I’ll tell them you turned in early.”

“Thanks,” said Six, still staring fixedly out the windows. She looked past the strip, out at the mountains in the distance.

Moore moved towards the elevator doors, leaning on her cane, her gait shortened and awkward. She called the elevator, then lingered on the landing for a moment. “Good night, Ortega,” she said.

Six glanced up, and the colonel saluted, then vanished into the elevator. The doors closed behind her, and Moore was gone, swallowed up by the Lucky 38. Six let out a sigh, then stared down at her hands: callouses and scars and chewed nailbeds. After everything, her hands were still her own. She put her head down on the counter, too exhausted to weep.

**Author's Note:**

> The Courier, a recovering Med-X addict, is groped by president Kimball at a banquet. Although she’s in a bad headspace, she consents to having sex (which includes being struck as part of a consensual power exchange) with Moore. Their encounter is dark, but ultimately consensual.


End file.
